by J. C. Staudt
“Do I know you from somewhere?” asked the proprietor, a portly man with wide sideburns and a squinty right eye, as he came to Darion’s table.
That was when Darion realized his mistake. Familiar places, he thought to himself. I must stay away from familiar places. “Have you been often to Thraihm?”
“Sometimes. I make supply runs twice a season for that lovely dark northern amber. Are you from Yonigsburgh?”
“Frostport.”
“My, that’s a ways. And what is it you do up there in Frostport?”
“What does everyone from Frostport do?” Darion said. “Leave.”
The barkeep howled with laughter. “Leave. Leave, he says. Hah! And so you have. Come here by sea, I’ll wager.”
Darion nodded.
“I knew you were a ship’s man. I can smell the salt on your cloak. Nose like a bloodhound, I have.”
Not this cloak, Darion might’ve said. Still, if the barkeep smelled anything past the crust of seasickness in his tunic, the man had a fine sense indeed. “What is there to drink in this place?”
“Name your preference.”
Darion considered a pint of cheap swill to wash down his memory-dreams, but the thought of drinking made him woozy. His last visit to the Hawk’s Barrel had been with Sir Jalleth, in celebration of their successful return from Kriia, the Dragon Isle. There Darion had earned his title of Dragonmaster by bending the ancient blue dragon Taerbalkonnyn to his will and thereby preventing the massacre of an entire monastic order. “Just water for me,” he said.
“Water? You’ve crossed a thousand lifetimes of it, and you come into my tavern asking for more? I could fit five or six fellows like you at a table this size, yet you’re all cozied up alone and you’ve failed to offer me so much as a cut copper in custom. Well I—”
“And a room for the night,” Darion added.
The barkeep eased. “Now, that’s more to my tastes. Just you then, is it?”
“Just me.”
In the morning, Darion rode south down the Shadewood Road. The forest had earned its name, for not a speck of sunlight shone through the dense upper canopy. The trees were thick and ancient, crowding the narrow dirt path where primeval roots rose from the dust like arms. It was a long day to Highhollow, dawn to dusk on horseback at a brisk pace. Darion was unused to traveling without the weight of plate armor, but he found he could take his little mare all the further without a rest. As the forest cleared away and the sharp red outline of the Gorepeaks surged onto the southern horizon, Darion was thankful he wouldn’t need to make camp beside that dark road this night.
It was in Highhollow that he took the wiser course and strayed from his familiar haunts to find something off the beaten path. He chose a leaning three-story plank boarding house with a courtyard stable and a hanging sign that read: The Cup and Casque. Inside he found a collection of mountain men and woodcutters so loud and burly it seemed they might strike the low beamed ceiling off its columns.
Darion’s stomach had settled, so he stopped at the bar for an icy tankard of ale before taking a seat in a vacant booth against the wall. From that vantage point he became aware of a contentious debate going on between two groups of men across the room’s long center table. Soon he’d attached himself to their discussion, if only as rapt observer. With the Korvane Road serving as the border between Dathrond and Berliac, it was no surprise to see subjects of the two neighboring kingdoms facing off in a town like Highhollow. Nor was it a stretch to think that every tavern and brewhouse in this town might be a breeding ground for such debate.
“Lucien King betrayed the realms when he allied with Korengad,” said an oafish Dathiri man with droplets of ale in his wide brown beard. “He might’ve held those bloody buggering northmen at sea in Belgard with a simple command. Instead he let them walk right in and destroy the Eastgap. Four harvest seasons hence and our farms are still recovering from all the pillaging and burning those barbarians did.”
Darion had been wondering how the realms’ food supply had fared in the wake of the invasion. The prices at the Hawk’s Barrel had been on the high side, but he’d assumed that was the stingy old barkeep’s doing. They were higher here. He’d noticed men paying for their drinks with silver.
“You Dathiri and your short-sighted reasoning,” replied a muscled Berlishman in a pointed felt hat with two axes in his belt. “Olyvard invited hatred upon his kingdom when he held the Korengadi prince against his will. He’s responsible for all of it; the shortages, the poor harvests, the rapes, the killings. That’s on your king’s head, not ours.”
“Olyvard King is responsible for nothing,” shouted a third man, a curly blond bruiser with rounded ears that stuck out from his head like wind flaps. “He needn’t answer to the likes of you, nor will he suffer to be cowed by lesser men. He made a play for the northern continent, and won it. We’ve grown larger and wealthier now than your accursed Berlish king could ever dream, and your jealousy only serves to show the truth of it. Were Lucien King so strong and powerful a leader as Olyvard, Berliac mightn’t be such a disgrace.”
“Aye, what he said,” added another Dathiri. “Dathrond still holds the Korengadi capital, last I heard. The northmen ran home, only to fall straight into Olyvard King’s trap.”
Darion winced at this last bit. Dathrond would hold nothing by now, had I remained in Korengad, he wanted to say. He held his tongue and kept listening.
“The burning of the Eastgap was a poor stroke for us all, despite what you claim,” said a second Berlishman. “You’ll flock to your king and defend his actions all the day long, yet you forget the price we’re all paying on account of Dathrond’s treachery.”
The Dathiri oaf shot to his feet. “Treachery? Is that it? Tell me, who was right there beside the blessed northmen, looking the other way while they burned our farms and fields and villages? You were, that’s who. Your army, sent by your king, with his nefarious purposes in mind. What better way to enjoy the spoils of war than to exploit the downfall of the greatest kingdom in all the realms? Your Lucien King would’ve tickled himself gold, picking through the scraps of Maergath alongside those Korengadi scum.”
That nearly made Darion stand and speak, but he shifted in his seat and anchored himself to his chair.
The Berlishman in the pointed hat waved a dismissive hand and said, “You’re a bag of bile if ever I’ve known one, Worley.” His eyes fell on Darion. He cocked his head as if to study the discomfort written on Darion’s face. “Here’s a man who looks ready to contribute. Why, he’s fit to burst with the telling. Give us your thoughts, stranger. What have you to say on the matter?”
“I prefer to remain impartial when it comes to such matters,” Darion said, too quickly.
“My, aren’t we a proper old fellow? Where did you learn to speak like that, I wonder? Bollocks, says I. This is Highhollow. Everyone here has an opinion. Those without one have found themselves gutted and left to bleed often enough of late.”
“I’m enjoying your spirited discussion, for what it’s worth,” Darion said. “Nevertheless, I’d sooner abstain.”
“You needn’t be afraid to speak your mind,” said the Berlishman. “We’re all friends here, of a sort. There’s no shame in taking a side.”
“Except to be castigated by the other,” said the flap-eared Dathiri.
“I’ve had an earful of you, Andon. You’ll scare the poor man off before he’s had a chance to speak. Where do you hail from, stranger? I’ve not seen you hereabouts before.”
Darion gave him the same story he’d given the proprietor of the Hawk’s Barrel in Belgard. “I’m Thraihmish, down from north of the Whitebranch.”
“There you have it, says I. He’s one grandsire away from a snow-bearded barbarian himself. No doubt he sides with the Berlish.”
“Now let’s not be so quick to judge,” said Andon the Dathiri. “Let him speak for himself, ere you go filling his mouth with words he never said. The Thraihmish are aiding the Dathiri army in Cronar
mark, I’ll remind you.”
“I beg of you, gentlemen,” said Darion. “I mean to sit here and enjoy my ale and listen, if I may. I’ve come a long day’s ride, and I’ve many more ahead of me yet. I wish to shake off the toils of the road without bother.”
“Bother, he says? Forgive me, milord, if I’ve interrupted your quietude for a bit of jovial discourse. We cannot all be so fortunate as to remain disinterested and disengaged from the affairs of our daily lives.”
“Come off it, Worley. Leave the man alone, will you?”
“Bah,” said Worley. “Nothing worse than a pacifist. Contemptuous as the Korengadi themselves.”
That was enough to incite Darion in an instant. He pounded the tabletop and rattled his tankard, bringing the whole group to attention. “You want my point of view? You shall have it, then. You’re bloody fools, the lot of you. You know nothing of war, or sacrifice, or true loyalty to the realms. You sit here and bicker all the day long, casting idle blame and dissatisfaction where you know it is wasted. Meanwhile, what have you done to better yourselves? Who among you has lifted a finger? No, gentlemen. I shall take neither side, for neither side is worth taking. I am no pacifist. I simply know when a battle’s worth fighting.”
The common room was quiet for a moment. Murmurs turned to talk, then amplified to the same volume as before. The muscled Berlishman in the pointed hat came over to sit beside Darion. “I can respect a man who knows where he stands. Tholan Sasic.”
Darion shook his hand. “Enon Gerrard,” he replied, thinking quickly.
“You’re too cautious to be a Thraihmishman, Master Gerrard. Every Thraihmishman I know is matter-over-mind and liable to let everyone know it. What’s your tale, stranger?”
“You think my countrymen fit a single mold, do you? We are not all so frank and artless.”
“It’s too cold up there for pleasantries. Northmen shiver, shout, and shit with equal indiscretion.”
“You’ve caught me out,” Darion said. “I am no Thraihmishman. I’m fled from the western wilds of Tetheril.”
Tholan shook his head with a smile. “The Tetheri are mad as foxes. You’re a cultured man. I can hear it in the way you speak. Now I’m beginning to doubt your father’s name was Gerrard.”
“Astute though you may be,” said Darion, “let us say I mean to keep my father’s name a secret. What then?”
“Well, then I’d say you must be in some sort of trouble. We don’t need another troublemaker round here. We’ve got a bushel basket full of them as it stands.” He thumbed over his shoulder.
“Then it’s just as well I don’t mean to stay very long.”
“Aye, and better you don’t stay at all.”
“Are you not satisfied to leave me be?” Darion asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Any man who speaks as you did earlier has more to him than he lets on. I’m a curious man, Master Gerrard. And a watchful one.”
“You may watch me all you like. I won’t cause trouble here, I swear it.”
Tholan stood. “See that you don’t. Something tells me you would not want the town guard involved in your affairs.”
Darion sipped his ale. “I am a simple traveler. Nothing more.”
“If that were true, it would be the first truth you’ve told since you sat down.”
“Not quite,” said Darion. “I did not lie when I said you were all bloody fools.”
A smile spread across Tholan’s face. He burst into laughter. “Is that right? You’ve hit the mark near enough, I’d say. Why, you’re as sour as the rest of us. I take back what I said before. You’d fit right in round here.”
No, Darion thought. I don’t believe I would.
Chapter 6
When she finished casting her spell, Stoya took the glowing green drop of awakened mage-song from where it floated in front of her. She looked across the clearing to where Eldrek stood, begging him without words for direction. It was the same secluded clearing where they always practiced, but today the old man’s lesson was of a different kind.
“That’s it, now take it in,” Eldrek told her. “Drink it, as you would wine from a cup.”
“It’s been years since I’ve had a cup of decent wine.” She lifted her hand and let the mage-song slide into her mouth. She was surprised at how it felt; nearly tasteless and almost formless, but not quite. There was a bitter metallic tinge to it, like saffron and lightning. It was neither hotter nor colder than the air of that early summer afternoon. Nor could she discern whether it was wet or dry; and when she pushed against it with her tongue, it resisted.
“Swallow it,” Eldrek instructed.
She did.
No sooner did the spell reach her belly than she felt the pleasant—or was it painful?—sensation of tightening, as in the moments before emptying her bowels. Her hands tingled; her face flushed.
Suddenly she could feel everything there was to feel. The wind blew, stirring a million blades of grass as if they were hairs upon her head. Grubs burrowed through the soil beneath her feet. Eldrek’s heart thudded in her ears from fifty paces away. A songbird hopped along a branch, talons scratching the bark like swords on stone. The sun pulsed with radiant energy. Someone was hiding in the woods, peering out from behind a stand of underbrush.
Stoya whirled.
Someone was hiding in the woods. A figure darted from the underbrush, heading for town.
She followed, breaking into a sprint.
Eldrek called out in warning. She spoke the sigils of the last spell he’d taught her. When the mage-song appeared before her, she cast it down at her feet and felt the swirling light engulf her legs. Time parted to let her through.
Next she knew, she was behind the figure and gaining fast. She dove at his shoulders and tangled up his legs with hers. They hit the dirt and tumbled to a stop. Stoya was on her feet in a flash. No one else was around; she knew it with certainty given the heady awareness of the sensing spell. Town was a distance off, so she could raise her voice without fear of being heard. “You,” she shouted. “You’ve been watching us.”
Kent Norch rolled over and backed away on his elbows. “Stay away from me, witch.”
“Why are you spying on us?”
“I knew there was something rotten about you two. You ain’t the old man’s wife, is you? You’re his dark apprentice, playing out his every wish with your evil magic and vile enchantments.”
“That is nowhere near the truth,” she said, moving to help him up.
Kent backed away, kicking at her. “Keep your hands off me. I want none of your foul devilry. I’ve had naught to do with this, and they know it.”
“Who knows it?”
“The king’s soldiers. They rode into the village this morning. I told them everything.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Too late for regrets, Mistress Lyrent. Or ought I call you Lady Mirrowell? It’s long past time you answered for your dark deeds.”
“Magic is not against the king’s laws. If anyone knows that, it’s Tarber the Mage-King himself. His soldiers know it too.”
Kent laughed. “These ain’t Orothi soldiers. They’re Dathiri Pathfinders. On their way to investigate a disturbance of some kind in Westenreach. The same folk we’ve seen traveling the Wildwood Road time and again in search of a treasonous lord and his lady for crimes against the crown. Magic-users, they say. Warcasters.”
“That man back there,” Stoya said, “is not Darion Ulther. Eldrek Lyrent is no traitor to the crown.”
“Commander Elara and her Pathfinders will judge that for themselves.”
There was a pounding in the soles of Stoya’s feet. “Horses.”
Kent gave her a crooked smile. “They’re coming for you.”
Stoya’s first thought was Draithon. He was in the village, playing with the cooper’s children as he so often did. When she heard Eldrek approaching, she turned to him and explained what was happening.
“I feared thi
s day would come,” Eldrek said.
“You brought this upon yourself, old man,” said Kent. “Telling stories of Darion Ulther’s legend as if you weren’t singing your own praises the whole time.”
“My own praises?”
“Never mind,” Stoya said. “We must find Draithon.”
“Have you the—” Eldrek broke off when he remembered the scroll was still in Stoya’s satchel at the edge of the clearing. “I’ll go back for the bag. You get the boy.”
“Where shall we meet?”
“I’ll find you.” Eldrek clutched the ivory pendant. “I haven’t much time.”
“I’ll hurry,” Stoya promised. With one last regretful look, she dashed for the village while Eldrek clumped off in the opposite direction as fast as his elderly legs would allow.
“You’ll never outrun them,” Kent shouted after her.
Stoya ignored him. She kept to the forest, avoiding the path until she reached the village. When the Dathiri Pathfinders thundered past, she ducked behind the wattled walls of the blacksmith’ forge. The riders were heading toward the bridge, beyond which lay the hut Stoya shared with Eldrek and Draithon. She was thankful she hadn’t left anything important behind. The soldiers might ransack the hut and destroy her belongings, but the only things that mattered were Draithon and that scroll. It was the scroll they wanted, she knew; that, and her.
When she arrived at the cooper’s cottage, no one was there but Ithric Geiger himself.
“Where is everyone?” Stoya asked him.
“Rhilde took the children for a walk,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Where did they go?”
“Down by the river. They’ll be close to your house by now, I would think.”